You?
by accidentallybroken
Summary: Someone left a love note on Simon's desk, and Simon is going to find out who. Baz is writing poetry and leaving them on Simon's desk. The poetry was written by me, except for the lines that were taken from Rainbow Rowell (you were the sun) and (this will end in flames) so, I'm sorry if it stinks.
1. Chapter 1

**Simon**

Simon was thinking about Agatha when he noticed the piece of paper on his desk.

 _Every time when you walk in_

 _I wonder if you're real_

 _Because I've never met anyone_

 _like you who makes me feel_

 _like I'm collapsing in on myself_

 _a dying star_

 _but you're the sun_

 _and this will end in flames_

Simon frowned. Who was this from? Certainly not Agatha, she had made it clear she never wanted to see him again. Who else would send something like this to him? He wasn't even sure exactly what it meant. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to find out. He wasn't quite sure he was over Agatha yet...

 **Baz**

Baz was sweating, even though he was sure no one had seen. Why had he done that? That was the type of poetry that you bury in a dark place and never look at except for when you wrote it, and never let anyone do. And he went and put it on the guy's desk? What was he thinking? He put his head in his hands and groaned. It was too late now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Simon**

Simon found another note on his desk a week later.

How could I be enough

when you are the sun and the world

i would gladly burn

but i would be consumed too quickly

you are everything

and i am nothing

Simon had no idea who was leaving it, but it made him feel strange, sad and a bit scared, but also like he was witnessing something beautiful and sacred.

 **Baz**

Okay, Baz had done it again. He had left another one of those poems on Simon's desk. He had done this even after he had seen the picture of Simon and the pretty blond girl on Simon's desk. He glanced over at Simon's desk, and noticed that the photo was gone.

 **Simon**

Simon finally took the picture down. He didn't know if it was just because of the breakup, but now he was looking back and thinking that what they had wasn't real, wasn't anything that would last. He was less torn up about it than he had thought. He wasn't ready to think about the note on his desk yet, he wasn't even sure what it meant, even though it sort of looked like love poetry. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore.


	3. Pink isn't always for Romance

Agatha was a coward. She knew that now. She could have told him, but she didn't, instead making up an excuse that cast him as the villain instead of her. How hard could it be, to tell him that she had been wrong about herself, and it wasn't his fault?

Agatha had never really known if she loved. She was certainly attracted to boys, but did she love them? She hadn't really ever been sure, feelings were so confusing. She felt something, but was it love?

She had never really loved Simon, she knew that now. She didn't think that she had ever really loved anyone.

She must be broken, because everyone loves, doesn't they?

She should have just told Simon. He would have been hurt, but would it have been better to be honest, say that she thought the problem was with her?

Instead she had told him that he wasn't exciting or romantic enough, and that was why she was ending it. That was a lie, but it neatly kept her out of the role of the villain.

She should have told him.

AComments


	4. Chapter 4

Baz shook silently, tears running down his face. Why couldn't he just keep his bloody mouth shut? What did he think would happen? Baz had come out to his family the previous night. He'd just walked in during dinner, from the library where he had been reading, gathering his courage, and blurted out, "I'm gay."

There were very mixed reactions:

A triumphant, "I KNEW IT." From Mordelia,

The twins and the baby sat silently, unsure as to what was going on,

and finally his father.

"Basilton, what is this? Why would you say that?" Baz cleared his throat.

"Because it's true."

"I refuse to accept that. It must be some phase, or some way of spiting me. It's unnatural." Daphne started.

"Malcolm-"

Baz chimed in.

"Homosexuality is found in over 450 species, homophobia is only found in one." Baz had found that cool statistic on the internet.

"Oh, and is vampires one of those species?" Malcolm hissed. There was a shocked silence from Mordelia and Daphne, the only ones other than Baz and his father that knew what was going on. Malcolm had never acknowledged what Baz was before.

"Don't say that!" Mordelia sounded pained. "Why is being gay bad?" Malcolm glared at her, not saying anything. Daphne put her hand on Mordelia's shoulder.

"Hush now. I think you and the other children should go to bed. " Mordelia started to protest, but was silenced by her mother's glare. She stomped over to the baby, picked him up, and gestured for the twins to follow her, grumbling under her breath.

"Father..." Baz started again.

"No." Malcolm roared. "No son of mine is gay. Get out."

Baz didn't know what he'd expected. In a conservative family that never acknowledged anything, did he really think coming out with an uncomfortable truth would be a good idea? He had stormed up to his room in a daze, packing his things. On his way down the hall, Mordelia had stopped him, peering out of her room.

"Basil. Don't listen to Father. I mean, I don't know when you'll be able to come back, but he's the only one who cares. None of the rest of us care. Anyway, I already knew." Baz was surprised.

"You did?" And he had thought he was being so subtle.

"Yes, Aunt Fiona told me." Mordelia said solemnly. Baz would have to have a talk with Fiona about telling information to eight year olds. However, Mordelia seemed to be trustworthy.

"Okay, well, thanks for telling me. Bye, Mordy." Mordelia darted forward and hugged him.

"Bye, Baz." She said sadly.

And now here he was in the bathroom of a hotel in London, crying his eyes out. He looked at the time. Merlin! He was supposed to be at work in three hours! He washed his face, grabbed his jacket, and ran out the door.


	5. Chapter 5

**A little note about the use of parentheses in Simon's speech- I feel like Simon thinks a lot, sort of all mixed together. He has a bit of trouble speaking because it's hard for him to order all those thoughts into something that makes sense to someone else. I know a lot of the speech thing was because of his childhood, but I feel like just by the way his thoughts sound in Carry On, this is a way I can express his thoughts easily, if that makes any sense.**

Chapter Text

 ** **Simon's POV****

The boy with the flyaway black hair, and long legs (gorgeous legs) (Shut up, inner Simon) hurries into the door. I haven't seen him before (how could I have missed him), but he clearly works here, judging by the nods he gets from the other people in the office. The desk he sits at has a few plants, and a few pictures of him with a little dark haired girl, with Billie Piper lips (they don't quite close, just like Rose's) clearly taken in a photo booth. Everything is organized and clean, unlike my desk.

The boy (well, young man) is wearing a red sweater and expensive looking black jeans. His eyes are slightly puffy. I stand up. (What will I say?) I walk over. "Um." (Christ, why can I never speak intelligently?) His eyes widen slightly as he looks up at me, and then his face morphs back into his bored mask. "I was just wondering if you were like, okay." He looks up, his face expressionless.

"Yes, I am, thank you, not that it's any of your concern." His voice is short and clipped. He sounds cold. (tosser.)

"Okay, whatever, no need to be all hostile." He stares at me and quirks his eyebrow high above his slate grey eye. He says nothing, simply studying me. I go back to my seat, not knowing what to say.

 ** **Baz's POV****

He talked to me. He asked how I was, he sounded concerned, and I brushed him off. My head is spinning. Is my default setting just cold tosser? It certainly seems that way. It must come across that way. To him. The bloody sun, the distractingly blue-eyed-bronze-curled one.

He must hate me. Practically everyone does (at least, it seems that way.) Maybe those giggling girls trying to hit on me didn't at first, but once I brushed them off, and was rude to them, they must. Even if I'm gay, I probably shouldn't have been that rude to them. But now isn't the time to be guilty. What is it the time to be? I'm so confused, I realize. I have no idea where to go. I have no purpose. This office is just a way to create an apparent purpose. But that's not my purpose. What is my purpose?

I try and think that through. People say you should start with what you love. What do I love? Not much, apparently. Mordelia, My Aunt Fiona-when she's not screaming at me-, playing the violin, and hot guys. Not many career options. The violin isn't exactly a practical occupation, no matter how good I am. And the rest of those, I have no future with.

I glance back over at the sunshine god across the office. Simon. That's what people call him. He's sitting at the desk with paperwork scattered over the surface. A woman in a pantsuit with blue hair and purple cat eye glasses walks over to him. I think she's the Vice President of the company we work for, with rumors going around that she's soon to replace the current president. She's holding a bakery bag. She ruffles his hair and sets the bag down on his desk.

I feel a quick surge of jealousy at the hair ruffle. I turn back to my work, but I can still hear them.

"Before you say anything, Simon, it is sour cherry, I did ask them to put extra butter on it, and I did say hello to Gareth for you."

"Thanks, Penny." He says fondly. (He's probably the only person in the office that could get away with that. Everyone I've heard calls her Mrs. Bunce.)

I can't help turning around and watching him eat the scone. He has crumbs around his mouth, and I fight the urge to go over and brush them off with my mouth.

At the end of the day, I grab my coat, and head to the hotel. The drive is long, but I'm planning on moving to a closer hotel tomorrow. I pull out my violin and play something out of my head, an aching melody.


	6. Chapter 6

It started with a feeling, like it always did. The tension in the air, like waiting for water to boil. Feeling the pull in the air. This time, it was a man, at a bar.

Simon was barely of drinking age, and he had work the next day. It probably wasn't the best idea for him to be there.

But he was tired. And burned out. What a smart, mature person would do is take care of themself, get some sleep, eat healthy, go out with friends, here he was. Even considering his history with alcohol. (Well, not his history, exactly. But the way alcohol affected his life.) However bad a choice it was, here he was, sitting at the counter, nursing a drink.

He could feel it, though. The set of eyes on him. The kettle about to whistle. Simon could feel the man watching him. He could sense the anger below the surface. Simon tried to ignore it tried not to think about it because God that wasn't right he couldn't think about That...

Looking back on it later, he should have left right then.

But maybe the drink was affecting his brain, giving him problems but not the obvious solution. Or maybe he didn't want to leave. Maybe there was still some part of him that was curious about what would happen. Even if he knew, in every tingling cell in his body, what this was probably the beginning of.

The man got up off his bar stool and came over.

"How old are you, anyway?" His voice was slightly slurred. He sounded angry, for no reason. This was how it always started...

Simon tried to make his voice sound strong, closed. "Old enough." He didn't look at the man. He sipped his drink. He prayed that the man would leave.

The man laughed with no humor. "I bet you are. Fucking kids, rushing to be an adult. Not ready for the world. It's gonna chew you up, and spit you out, son. And there's nothing you can do about it!" The man roared this last bit, pounding on the counter drunkenly.

Simon became aware that he had his arm had flown up in front of his face. His shield. Shielding him. Simon bit his lip. Not again. Not this again. His nerves felt like ice. He couldn't go. Where would he go?

Then Simon shook his nerves awake. He was not nine years old and helpless and stuck anymore. He lowered his arm. He stood up, and turned his back on the man. He walked out of the room, trying not to show his nervous energy in his gait.

He walked out into the cold street. He wanted to run away from the place, but was afraid he might crack into little pieces and get blown away by the brisk wind. He needed to find somewhere to go. He couldn't make it home. He saw a cafe on the other side of the street.

Brightly lit, with softly laughing people inside. Always sitting in pairs, or groups. None of them alone.

Simon waited for a good time, and then hurriedly crossed the street. He pushed open the door, feeling the rush of heat coming from inside, a bell ringing. He needed to get away. He needed to be alone. He headed to the back of the store front. A bathroom, something...

He spotted a door marked as a restroom, and pushed the door open. There were a couple stalls. He shoved the stall door, and went in and sat down on the floor. As soon as he felt the cold stone tiles, he started shaking.

Not this, not again. It had been years since he had seen him, since he had gotten out of there. Why was he still affected in this way.

It started on late nights when Davy had been tired at work. Complaining, cursing the imbeciles he worked with. Angry, with no outlet. Simon was too young to recognize the warning signs. He hadn't learned to not provoke it yet...

Simon realized there were hot tears running down his face. Fuck goddammit no...

He stood up. He unlocked the stall door. He couldn't do this. He had to be strong, carry on. A damaged past didn't have to mean he was a damaged person.

He headed towards the sink and looked in the dingy mirror. Slightly puffy eyes, freckles, a tiny crack in his lip where he'd bit it, messy hair. Simon turned the rusted faucet and splashed water on his face.

It felt cold and foreign, but good on his face. Clean.

He rinsed his face, and then turned the water off. His eyes were still red, but a bit better. His face was still dripping. Simon stared at his face more. Vulnerable. A target. Blue eyes full of fear.

Simon tried to calm his breathing. It was okay, he was okay, he could do this.

He heard the door swing open behind him, and turned around to see- Baz? (He had learned his name.)

Baz looked as shocked as Simon felt. "Snow?" Baz looked closer and seemed to register that something was wrong. Simon could see his sharp eyes roving over Simon's shaking hands, his red eyes. "What the bloody hell happened to you?"

Come on say something, say something! Simon tried to force words out of his lips. "I- um-" The words stopped, feeling like tar slipping back down his throat. To his dismay, tears started leaking out of his eyes.

Fuck shit! Simon's thoughts weren't coherent, more profane than profound, but he knew that he shouldn't be doing this, not now, he should be stronger than this, better than this.

Simon sunk to the floor, defeated. He had cracked, might as well show it now. He buried his head in his hands. He was done. He heard a hesitant breath beside him.

"Are you okay?" Simon didn't answer. He heard a rustling next to him, and lifted his head slightly to see Baz sunken down against the wall next to him. "Is there anything I can do?" said Baz, his voice uncharacteristically soft (Well, from what Simon knew of him, uncharacteristic). What could he do?

Simon shook his head as well as he could with his head firmly buried in his hands. He couldn't see Baz, but he knew that he was thinking hard.

"Could I take you home?" Baz queried. Wait, what? Simon lifted his head, to see Baz slightly flushed as he realized what he'd said. "Oh, no, not like that! You just look like you need to get home, and you don't look in a great state." Simon tilted his head back against the wall.

"No, I'm not really." Simon said thickly. Baz looked at him thoughtfully, without any of the coldness Simon had seen at work.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No!" Simon forced out. He couldn't tell anyone.

"Alright, then. If you're ready to get up, I'll drive you home." Baz looked at Simon, and seemed to gather that he could probably stand. He stood smoothly up, and offered a hand to Simon. Simon ignored it, and struggled up. Baz pushed the door open, and headed out into the busy cafe, not looking back until he reached the door.

Simon was a few steps behind him, and Baz held the door open for him with the tip of his finger. Simon stepped out into the frigid night. Baz led him around to the shop's car park. He walked up to a sleek grey car (Simon didn't know much about cars, so he didn't know what kind) and unlocked it. Simon headed to the passenger side and buckled in.

Baz glanced over to make sure he was secure, then started up the car. He smoothly pulled out of the parking space. "So, Snow, where am I going? In which direction is your humble abode?"

Simon looked around. "Um." He wasn't exactly sure where he was.

"How did you get here, anyway?"

"I walked." Baz glanced in the rear-view mirror.

"So it's not far. Look, just give me the address, and I'll let the GPS on my phone do the rest." Simon nodded, and Baz pulled out a sleek silver phone. He listened as Simon told him, typed it in, and put the phone on his lap. He pulled out of the car park, a little fast, but well.

Simon stared at the car for the first couple minutes of the short car ride. Then a thought occurred to him. "Wait, you came into the bathroom, do you still need to go?" Baz looked over in confusion, and then his face cleared.

"No, I was just going to fix my hair." He looked slightly bemused that Simon thought of that. Simon looked at Baz skeptically.

"But your hair's perfect!" Baz looked like he was trying not to smirk.

"Not perfect enough." Simon lapsed into silence. Then, a few seconds later, he spoke up again. Any conversation was good, anything to put his mind on.

"What were you doing in that cafe? Doesn't seem like your kind of place."

"Oh, and what does seem like my kind of place?" Baz said, slightly miffed. "I was just getting a drink!"

"I don't know, people lounging in suits eating caviar and smoked sea bass." Baz shook his head, exasperated, at the image.

"It's not like that."

"What kind of drink were you getting? Earl Grey, Champagne?" Baz sighed.

"Still not letting go of this posh fake royalty image, are we? I was getting a pumpkin mocha breve, if you must know. " Simon snickered.

"Isn't that the drink that tastes basically like a candy bar? You, the prince of darkness?"

"I am not going to grace that with a response." Simon saw that they were on the street his flat was now. The GPS noticed too, and chirped out directions. Baz parallel parked on the street next to the flat (he made parallel parking look easy!) and unbuckled. He opened the door, and stepped out.

"Wait, why are you getting out? I can get to my flat myself." Baz looked bored.

"Because, Snow, I have absolutely nothing better to do." Simon conceded, and got out of the car.

Baz walked Simon up the creaky stairs to his flat. "Thanks, Baz."

"It's nothing, Snow." Then Baz turned and walked away.

 **I'm. So. Sorry. It's. So. Late.**


End file.
